The Last Full Measure
by Lil black dog
Summary: What if the Organians hadn't decided to intervene, halting the Klingon/Federation war before it even started?  Here's an AU look at how things might have played out. Warning:  Graphic descriptions of torture, both physical & emotional, and character death


A/N: What if the Organians hadn't decided to intervene, halting the Klingon/Federation war before it even started? Here's an AU look at how things might have played out. This is another dark, grim tale on my part (maybe I need to get a nice, warm kitten for my Muse to cuddle with, or a soft, furry Tribble to pet). Warning: Graphic descriptions of torture, both physical and emotional, violence and character death. If this is not your thing, please don't read any further. Written for the 'Decisions, Decisions' challenge at Ad Astra.

I'd like to thank kes7, and her free write challenge, 'Kill Your Darlings,' for inspiring this. While I wasn't able to do it for the free write - at least not in the way the prompt intended - it planted the kernel in my mind that led to this piece.

Beta: This piece is largely unbeta'ed (didn't want to subject any of my regulars to this), but Mackenzie Calhoun did read the first few pages for me to make sure the events of the episode on which it is based were adequately explained, and the last few to help me decide whether or not to include the epilogue. I'm still not sure I made the right decision. If anyone cares to weigh in, and don't want to do it in a review that might be spoilerific, feel free to PM me.

If you're unfamiliar with the TOS episode 'Errand of Mercy,' it might be helpful to skim over the synopsis at Memory Alpha before reading this piece.

oooOOOooo

"_It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain"_ – Gettysburg address, President Abraham Lincoln, November 19, 1863.

**The Last Full Measure**

He'd lost track of how long they'd been here: A week? Two? A month? The cell where they were being held had no windows, no links to the outside world. Here he had no way to mark the inexorable progression of time. Minutes blended into hours, hours transformed into days, days stretched into weeks, the monotony only interrupted by horrifying periods of intense rage, bitter helplessness and lately a profound sense of hopelessness, at least for him. As the days marched on, he was unsure of what his companion felt, beyond excruciating agony.

He glanced down at the man lying on the floor next to him, bone-thin, pale, his clothing in tatters, his body covered in bruises and open, festering sores, one eye damaged beyond repair. His discomfort, his unease was evident even in the merciful release of sleep, tremors passing through the lean frame at irregular intervals, grimaces of pain marring the impassive features. Once upon a time this man would have known to the tenth of a second how much time had passed, but they were far from the safety, the security, the _normalcy_ of that previous life. It was as if it had never been; had been replaced by this existence where nothing mattered but surviving day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute.

Drawing the dark head into his lap, trying to offer a modicum of comfort, of relief, to share the warmth of his body as a way to combat the bone-chilling dampness of their surroundings, he struggled to remember why they were here; what had brought them to this planet in the first place. _Duty_, he reminded himself dully, the word slowly surfacing out of the jumbled layers of his mind. It was the duty of the Federation – and all those individuals who had taken an oath to uphold and defend her – to protect weaker, less advanced races from those who possessed the ability, the hostile intent to do serious harm to them and their way of life.

His mind flashed back to that fateful day: Unavoidable and imminent war with the Klingons had been buffeted about the galaxy on the interstellar wind, whispered on the lips of military men behind closed doors for several months now. Unfortunately, that scenario had now become stark reality. Organia was doomed to be caught in the middle, its strategic importance to both sides as a staging area making it paramount that he and his first officer win the hearts and minds of the ruling council, denying the Klingons access to Organia's immense potential, garnering the right for the Federation to use the planet as it saw fit during the impending conflict.

_It's_ _war_, the encrypted communiqué from Starfleet had announced indifferently, and the two of them had been ordered by the powers that be to prevent the Klingons from laying claim to the planet at all costs. Attempting to fulfill their duty, to carry out the oath they'd sworn, the two of them had beamed down to Organia. It proved to be far below the average Federation world on the evolutionary scale, unable to defend itself against the superior technological threat posed by the Klingons. In an effort to offer the inhabitants an alternative to the tyranny of Klingon rule, they had tried to persuade the planet's Council of Elders that Klingon occupation would mean hardship and death for much of their population, but the elders had been unconcerned, most assertive in their conviction that Organians at large were in no danger.

The Klingon fleet had arrived shortly thereafter, forcing their own vessel to retreat, leaving the two of them stranded and on their own. Before Kor, the new Klingon Military Governor of Organia, had entered the Council chambers, armed with a long list of instructions and rules designed to keep the general population in line, the Organians had initially tried to protect the two Federation operatives, supplying them with native clothing and a suitable cover story to explain their presence. Regardless, the Klingons had been instantly suspicious – the two of them simply didn't behave like the rest of the local populace. Knowing Vulcan was a member of the Federation, they had subjected his first to their Mind-sifter – a device designed to extract the thoughts from any mind it probed. Thanks to Vulcan mind disciplines, his companion had been able to resist, even at the fourth setting. The machine's operator had guaranteed the Klingon commander that no one was capable of concealing the truth at that level. For the time being, their identities had gone undetected.

However, it soon became obvious that the Organians were unwilling – or unable – to stand up to their occupiers. They proved to be lackluster, unconcerned about their own welfare, oblivious to the treachery and warlike nature of those who had seized control of their planet. Like sheep being led to the slaughter, the population at large appeared feeble-minded, meek, submissive, giving in to the Klingons' harsh, oppressive rule without complaint or any perceivable form of resistance. It proved to be the type of world the Klingons found most agreeable; one they'd be able to rule with a ruthless iron fist, ripe for bending to their will, one they could conquer without a backward glance and little to no effort on their part.

He wiped a dirty hand across his forehead, leaning his back against the damp, stone wall of their prison, pressing the upper torso of the man in his arms closer to his chest. Thoughts like these only succeeded in bringing forth his rage, his sheer frustration with their current situation. The day he had sworn his oath, declared his undying loyalty to the Federation, promised to uphold the ideas for which it stood, was but a distant, muddled memory; seemed to have taken place millennia ago. All that mattered to him now was finding some way to spare the fitful sleeper in his arms from the agony he was forced to endure on a daily basis; to keep him from being subjected to the unspeakable horrors that he knew awaited the Vulcan tomorrow. He himself was the key. He knew without question what had to be done. It was just a matter of finding the courage, the inner strength to do what was necessary…

oooOOOooo

_Twenty-four days ago.  
>Chamber of the Council of Elders.<br>Planet Organia._

"Of course we blew it up! Deliberately!" Kirk fired off hotly, in reference to a Klingon weapons dump he and Spock had destroyed, not even an hour ago. The Klingon occupation force had been on site for twenty-six hours now, and he and Spock had been the only ones who had attempted to move against them, receiving no help whatsoever from the indigenous population.

"But that was violence," Ayelborne countered, acting head of the Organian Council of Elders.

"We did it to show you, you can fight back. That you don't have to be sheep; you can be wolves." The captain strode to the table where the council members were seated. "History is full of examples of civil populations fighting back successfully against a military dictatorship. We may not destroy the Klingons, but we can blow up their installations, disrupt their communications; make Organia useless to them."

"Our fleet will eventually arrive. Meanwhile, the battle is ours. It can be a successful one," Spock added quietly.

"Captain, I implore you," Ayelborne began, his voice heavy, "never to do such a thing again."

"Why? Are you afraid of retribution? Does your personal freedom mean so little to you?"

"How little you understand us, Captain."

"All I understand is that you apparently don't have the backbone to stand up and fight and protect the ones you love. You speak of courage, gentlemen," Kirk stated, addressing the members of the council once again. "Does courage mean so little to you?"

Within minutes of their confession the doors to the chamber were flung open, Kor entering with guards in tow. "You speak of courage," he said, addressing Kirk. "Yes, I've had the room under surveillance since we arrived," he explained, noting the look of shock that had flitted briefly across the captain's face. "Obviously you don't know the difference between courage and foolhardiness." He approached the Council members. "It is always the brave ones who die; the soldiers. I hope you will continue to savor the sweetness of your life."

"Enough!" Ayelborne snapped. "We find interference in other people's affairs…most disgusting. We can no longer be party to this insane violence, this desire to do harm to other sentient beings. We must remove ourselves from the petty grievances of such inferior life forms."

"Inferior? Us?" Kor bellowed.

"What do you mean…remove yourselves?" Kirk asked, thoroughly nonplussed.

Ayelborne ignored Kor, turning to Kirk instead. "I'm sorry, Captain, we can no longer protect you and Mister Spock. You are on your own, gentlemen."

Kor shot Kirk a look, taking a step toward him, his eyes lighting up at the inadvertent disclosure. "Captain? Of a Federation vessel, perhaps?" he asked gleefully, but Kirk's reply was cut off as the members of the council began to glow, emitting a blinding light. As Klingon and Federation officers watched in disbelief, the corporeal bodies of all the Organians in the room began to fade, dwindling away to nothing.

The strident tone of his communicator vied for Kor's attention. Drawing his eyes away from the scene before him, he flipped it open, gesturing to the guards to take the two remaining non-Klingons in the room into custody.

"Kor here," he snapped. "What is it?"

"_Commander," _the disembodied voice from the instrument in his hand announced. _"My garrison was in the central square as instructed, when all the Organians…simply vanished."_

"Vanished?" Kor echoed, his voice edged with disbelief.

"_I swear, Commander. They were there one minute and gone the next. No one was at fault."_

"Acknowledged. Stand by for further instructions," he ordered, snapping the device closed. The Klingon commander looked to the two _Enterprise_ men. "Why were the Organians protecting you, Captain?" He looked from Kirk to Spock and back again. "Who are you?" he asked, sidling up to Kirk.

Kirk lifted his chin defiantly, meeting his opponent's gaze squarely, the muscles along his jaw line twitching, stubbornly refusing to answer.

"It is of little consequence; the Mind-sifter will tell me all I need to know," Kor remarked, unconcerned with the lack of cooperation. Kirk felt the silky voice slither along his spine. "Take the Vulcan to the holding cell," the Klingon commander barked at the guards, "And this one to the lab." He gestured absently toward Kirk. "Put him in the machine. It will only be a matter of time before I discover that which I wish to know," he said, lips curling into a sneer, causing the ends of his long, thin mustache to ripple and sway. "I shall be there shortly."

oooOOOooo

Kirk soon found himself in a small, dark room, strapped upright to a wall, a thin, helmet-like device – short, metal rods sprouting from its surface like petrified blades of grass – placed on his head. This instantly brought back images of the Neural Neutralizer they had discovered on the Tantalus Colony for the criminally insane; an insidious machine that had been used to manipulate the minds of the inmates there. While visibly different, their purposes were eerily similar: Do the bidding of the operator, or be faced with excruciating mental pain, one's mind emptied; one's individual strength of will destroyed in the process. Breaking out in a cold sweat, he recalled his own firsthand experience with the power of that machine when the director of the colony had used it on him. The memory was not a pleasant one. If this machine was anything like the Tantalus device, he wouldn't stand a chance.

Two operators stood behind a pedestal across the room, awaiting the arrival of their commanding officer, trading sadistic glances among themselves. Kirk swallowed grimly, summoning up a sense of resolve from somewhere. He had no illusions about the severe mental trauma he was about to endure.

Kor strode into the room momentarily, coming to a stop before him. "I shall ask you one last time, Captain – what is your name, and what is your mission here?"

Kirk said nothing, naked hatred and loathing burning in his eyes.

"Suit yourself," Kor responded indifferently, shrugging his shoulders, signaling to the operator behind him. "I promise you, this will be most painful."

As the machine flared to life, a faint glow was emitted from the device on Kirk's head, a low hum filling the room. The captain grimaced, choking back a sob, straining against his bonds. It felt as if his blood had been instantly turned to molten metal, the red-hot liquid searing a fiery path as it coursed through the veins and arteries in his brain, shorting out each synapse and neural pathway it encountered along the way. The blinding pain spread quickly, soon inflaming every nerve in his body. From the depths of the unspeakable agony that now engulfed him, he heard a low, demanding voice: "Who are you, Captain?" it growled harshly.

"Kirk, James T., Captain USS…," he heard himself answer, the words dragged out haltingly, hesitantly through clenched teeth as he fought to resist the power of the machine. He bit down hard on his lips, the salty tang of blood exploding across his tongue, willing himself not to divulge any additional information. The sweat was now running off him in rivulets as the fire scorching his brain increased tenfold.

Kor's eyes sparkled at the revelation. "Captain of the USS _Enterprise_. Your reputation precedes you. I had so hoped to meet you in battle." The Klingon Commander smiled to himself. "And the Vulcan is your First Officer, no doubt. I wonder how he managed to fool our Mind-sifter. Was it due to operator error, perhaps?" he postulated, raising his voice and casting a glance over his shoulder at the men behind the controls.

"There was no error, Commander, I swear," the senior operator assured him, swallowing nervously.

Kor turned his attention back to Kirk. "Even in our Empire, we have heard of the prowess of the Command Team of Starfleet's flagship. We shall see if the reports were accurate." At the wave of Kor's hand the device went dark momentarily, the room suddenly plunged into silence save for Kirk's ragged, harsh breathing, his head lolled forward, eyes squeezed tightly shut, chest heaving, blood, commingled with sweat, dripping liberally from the damaged lower lip.

Kor seized his chin, snapping his head upward roughly, forcing Kirk to meet his eyes. "So far, so good, Captain. And now you will tell me the composition and strength of the Federation's fleet, as well as its last known location."

"Go to Hell," Kirk shot back in a voice as hoarse as if he'd been screaming for hours on end.

"Trust me, Captain – I can assure you you'll be there long before me." Kor chuckled to himself. "I'll be able to get the information I require, with or without your cooperation. As for the condition of your mind when I have picked your brain clean, well that remains to be seen." Releasing Kirk's head, he signaled to the operator once again.

"Commander, a word," came the hesitant, fearful response.

Kor snapped his head around, fixing the insubordinate offender with a livid stare. "Proceed, Kinath," he instructed impatiently.

"Commander, there is some danger," the young officer began again. "His mind is remarkably resistant to the Mind-sifter, although not nearly as strong as the Vulcan's. There is a high probability that, if increased to the next setting, it will kill him before he discloses the necessary information."

"I said proceed, Kinath, or would you like to be strapped in next?" Kor snarled.

"No Commander; that will not be necessary."

"Use level two this time."

Kinath swallowed hard, visibly paling, his hands shaking as they played over the console before him. "Aye Commander, level two," he announced in an unsteady voice as the machine hummed to life once again.

This time, Kirk could not keep from crying out, a guttural sob torn from his throat, the tendons in his neck raised, stretched tautly beneath the skin, muscles knotted with his effort at resistance.

"Strength and composition of the fleet, Captain," Kor asked patiently.

"Kirk…James T…Captain…serial number SC-937—" The remainder ended in a blood-curdling scream as Kirk collapsed into unconsciousness, his bonds the only things keeping him upright.

"Cut power," the Klingon commander bellowed, and the machine once again went dark. "They are such a weak, inferior race," he spat out. "I must have that information. Take him to the cell with his first officer," he ordered the men behind him. "I shall be in my office, deciding how to proceed." And with that, Kor stalked out of the room.

oooOOOooo

Spock was beside himself, testing the strength of the wooden door to his cell for the tenth time in half as many minutes. He had to get to Jim; offer whatever assistance he could to his commanding officer. The Vulcan knew firsthand the power of the Klingon torture device, and was doubtful Kirk would be able to survive it with his mind intact, no matter the setting. All Starfleet command-level officers received training in resisting interrogation. Spock had the utmost faith in Kirk's ability to protect sensitive, classified information; his concern stemmed from how much damage this type of resistance would inflict on an unprotected mind exposed to such a formidable device.

He flopped down in a corner near the door, surveying his tiny prison. It was dark and damp, moisture dripping down the rough, stone walls, unmarred by windows or openings of any kind. Roughly rectangular in shape, the area by the door was raised, encompassing about a third of the room. The other section was about a meter below, the floor littered with a thin layer of straw.

He tensed, climbing instantly to his feet as he heard the unmistakable sound of boots being dragged across the flagstone floors without. A key scraped across metal as it was inserted into the primitive lock, tumblers clicking as the bolt was drawn back.

The door was flung open, but before he could react a shape was hurled into the room, falling off the raised section and landing in a heap on the stone floor below. The door closed quickly with a resounding thud, the bolt slamming home, but Spock only had eyes for the man who still lay crumpled among the straw. He was beside Kirk in an instant.

"Jim," he said softly, gently turning the man onto his back.

The hazel eyes that met his were crazed, wild with fear. The captain shrank back from the physical contact, scuttling away on all fours until his back bumped against the cold, damp wall.

"Jim," Spock said again, his voice calm, soothing, also moving in a crouched position, approaching the captain slowly, cautiously, a hand stretched out before him.

"No! Don't touch me! I won't tell you anything, do you hear?"

Spock instantly froze, the outstretched hand dropping to his side. "I do not require information. My only goal is to assist you," he assured Kirk softly.

"Why?" Kirk asked warily, a fist raised protectively before him.

"Because you are my captain…and my friend. Jim, it is I – Spock."

"Spock?"

"Yes, Jim." The Vulcan inched closer, noting with dismay the bruised and bloodied lip, yet somehow relieved he could see no other physical injuries.

"Spock." Kirk leaned forward, latching onto the Vulcan's upper arm with both hands, tugging him close, resting his forehead against Spock's shoulder. "They tried to get me to tell them things; things about the Fleet, but I resisted," he said, pushing away from the Vulcan slightly, hazel eyes rife with uncertainty as they searched the serene, brown ones.

"Yes, I know, Jim," Spock soothed, his face mere inches from Kirk's.

"I resisted this time, but I don't know if I can do it again. It was like they set fire to my brain," Kirk whispered, eyes unseeing, wide with fear once again.

"Do not think about it, Jim; it is over for now," Spock said forcefully, shaking his captain slightly. "Concentrate on something – _anything_ – else," he added, softer this time.

"I can't," Kirk whimpered, his tone fraught with rising panic, his eyes squeezed shut, his grip tightening painfully on the Vulcan's arm.

"Then let me help you," Spock remarked, his tone just this side of pleading.

"How?" Kirk asked, once more on the defensive.

"By mind melding with you. If—"

"NO!" Kirk shrieked, shrinking away from the Vulcan once again. "No one, or nothing, gets inside my head…" Every nerve ending in his brain was on fire with the remembered pain of the Klingon device. "…I can't…" His eyes were wide with terror.

"All right Jim, I shall not meld with you against your wishes," Spock reassured him.

Kirk quieted, a hitched breath escaping tightly compressed lips.

"But you must rest; allow your brain time to heal." _Before the next confrontation_ the Vulcan added silently. _I am a touch-telepath. If I can at least get Jim to allow me to touch him, I can ease his anxiety somewhat with or without a meld._ "Sleep now," he crooned softly.

Kirk closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. "I'm so cold, Spock," he blurted out suddenly.

"Here, this will help," Spock said, removing the thick woolen cape from the outfit the Organians had given him and draping it about Kirk's shoulders, gently drawing the shivering form to his chest. Kirk settled against the warmth of Spock's body and the Vulcan felt him relax slightly. "Yes, rest now," he intoned, sending soothing and calming thoughts Kirk's way through the inadvertent physical contact. Wrapped tightly in the protective cocoon of Spock's arms the captain fell at last into a fitful sleep, the only respite from what was to become their daily lives.

oooOOOooo

"Recommendations," Kor snapped, pacing the space in front of his desk, circling the subordinate officer before him like a hungry vulture homing in on its next meal.

"There is no amount of force we can use to get information from the Vulcan, Commander. We have seen this. He has already resisted at a setting well beyond that which would have broken the average man," the governor's second-in-command informed him.

"What about Kirk?"

"It seems Starfleet officers have more counterintelligence training than we had anticipated. Their minds are remarkably adept at protecting vital, sensitive information. As evidenced by the effects of level two on the captain, most likely our Mind-sifter will destroy his brain long before we can gain access to the intelligence we need."

"Then we shall resort to conventional methods to loosen his tongue!"

"Again, Commander, the training they have had may also preclude success with traditional methods of torture."

"Then what do you suggest? We have a starship captain and his first officer in our custody. Heads will roll if we can't supply our government with the inside information it requires regarding the inner workings of Starfleet, starting with yours, I promise you."

Lieutenant Krethal paled slightly. "Then perhaps we should approach the problem from a different angle, Commander."

"And what might that be?" Kor countered skeptically.

"It is a well-known fact that Vulcans are of hardier stock than humans, therefore I humbly suggest that we start with him."

"Are you mad? If he is stronger, and more able to resist the effects of torture, then what is to be gained by doing this?"

"We will not do this in an effort to garner information from him, but from Kirk."

"I don't follow," Kor growled in a malevolent whisper. "If you don't start making sense soon, Krethal, I'll put you in the machine myself."

The lieutenant's Adam's apple bobbed and he cleared his throat, the words tumbling over one another like grains of sand churned up by an angry sea as he fought to clarify his reasoning. "It is obvious they are more than captain and first officer. There is some genuine affection, and concern there, as evidenced by the captain's reaction when we first subjected the Vulcan to the Mind-sifter." He paused uncertainly.

"Go on, I'm listening," Kor stated, his interest piqued.

"It is a given that the Vulcan will be able to endure much more pain than the human. Why not use that to our advantage, Commander?"

"How?"

"By torturing the Vulcan as the captain is forced to watch, and telling Kirk it will continue, the level and pain for his friend escalating at every session, until the human tells us what we want to know."

"Of course," Kor agreed with conviction, finally grasping his second-in-command's inspired vision. "We'll be able to torture the Vulcan almost indefinitely, and at some point the captain will break, no longer able to see his friend in such terrible agony. It will be the best of both worlds, preserving the life of the one who is most likely to die under our methods but can provide us with the most useful information, while allowing us to use our most heinous procedures on the other, without fear of killing him in the process. Very clever, Krethal. There is hope for you yet," Kor announced, approval dancing in his eyes as he slapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.

He wandered back toward his desk, absently stroking his thin mustache. "At some point, the Vulcan may even beg Kirk to talk. That would be a delightful turn of events. I only hope I'm there to witness it." A cold sneer flitted across the swarthy features. "For tonight, allow them to rest. They will need it in the face of what's to come tomorrow."

oooOOOooo

Kirk awoke to harsh, guttural voices, light pouring into their tiny prison from the bright corridor beyond. "On your feet, Federation scum."

Disentangling himself from the security of Spock's side, he rose unsteadily to his feet, the Vulcan not far behind. "Move, both of you," the guard silhouetted in the doorway ordered, gesturing with his disruptor, stepping aside warily in order to grant them access to the room's only exit. Spock looked askance at him, but Kirk gave a slight negative shake of his head. Another guard, also armed, was visible in the corridor beyond the door. The two were ushered out, their captors following at a safe distance, disruptors trained on the Starfleet officers.

They soon found themselves in another dim, windowless space, torches affixed to various locations about the room supplying the only source of light, shackles hanging empty from metal rings on the back wall. Two Klingon soldiers were already on station, positioned behind a low table situated to one side, its contents hidden under a dirty sheet of fabric.

Kor and Krethal appeared momentarily. The governor approached Kirk, a wide smile stretched over his face. "Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you are well rested?"

Kirk responded with a grin of his own. "Yes. The accommodations were most satisfactory. Thank you for your gracious hospitality," he intoned, his voice edged with sarcasm.

Kor chuckled brightly. "Good. It pleases me to know that both of you are in top physical condition, although I can't promise you how long that will last," he added innocently.

Kirk willed himself not to react to that statement, continuing to project an air of unruffled confidence.

"Unfortunately, gentlemen, our experiments with the Mind-sifter have shown it will be ineffective on you. The Vulcan's mind is remarkably adept at circumventing the machine's ability to peer directly into the mind, while you, Captain have the opposite problem: Your mind is too fragile. It would be destroyed long before we are able to extract the intelligence we desire." Kor began pacing the room, a fist pressed to his chin. "No, it seems we will have to resort to other, more archaic methods, to get what we want.

"As you can see," he said, gesturing to the room around them, "conditions here are quite primitive. For 'superior' beings, the Organians appeared to be most content to live in squalor. It will be a week or so before we are able to get this facility rigged with all the comforts of home as it were. In the meantime, we'll need to rely on the cruder methods of interrogation currently at our disposal." He grinned openly at Kirk. "They may be crude, but they are often highly effective. And I promise you, Captain, if you do not tell me what I wish to know, your first officer will become intimately acquainted with each and every one of them." At Kirk's look of confusion, Kor's lips twisted into a malevolent leer. "We have come to realize that there is probably no means that we can employ on you Captain to force you to talk before our methods kill you." He paused for effect. "Save one. Each time you refuse to give us what we want, your Vulcan friend will be made to suffer the consequences." To demonstrate his point, Kor signaled to two of the guards who dragged Spock forward, stripping him to the waist and strapping him into the shackles facing the wall, his bare back exposed.

"Please, take a seat, Captain," Kor said, gesturing to the lone chair in the room. "I want to provide you with the best seat in the house to view this."

"I prefer to stand," Kirk responded defiantly.

"It doesn't matter what you prefer. I am in command here, not you, and you will do as instructed, or your subordinate will suffer." Kor nodded at one of the guards, who threw back the cover on the table, drawing a bull whip from the surface, snapping and cracking it in the air before him as he approached Spock. "Sit," Kor reiterated, his voice low, gravelly. Kirk found himself forced into the chair by two sets of hands on his shoulders. "Now that you are comfortable, Captain, I'll ask you again: What is the strength and composition of the fleet?"

He met Kor's cold stare with one of his own, and the whip cracked across the Vulcan's back, a thin stream of green blood trickling from the raised, open welt. The session continued for over an hour, short, frequent periods of inactivity sprinkled throughout, both he and Spock remaining obstinately silent, the minute drooping of the dark head and slightly elevated respiration rate the only indicators of Spock's distress.

oooOOOooo

"Here, let me help you." They were back in their cell, Kirk dunking a strip he had torn from the native clothing he was wearing into their small bowl of drinking water.

Spock presented his injured back without comment, and Kirk proceeded to clean the angry welts, gently washing away the dried blood. He finished by pouring their remaining water over Spock's back, rinsing the wounds as best he could. Another strip became a makeshift towel, Kirk dabbing gently at the cuts in an effort to dry them.

"I'm sorry, Spock. I wish there was more I could do. What I wouldn't give for one of McCoy's little magic pain pills, or a hypo of strong antibiotics right about now."

"Do not be concerned, Captain. As the doctor's medications tend to disagree with me, it is preferable to handle the pain on my own terms."

"And just how do you propose to do that, Mister Spock?"

"Pain is a thing of the mind. The mind can be controlled."

"Against something of this nature?" Kirk asked skeptically, eyeing the mangled flesh of the Vulcan's back.

"The wounds are superficial, easily managed," came the stoic response.

"I'm more worried about infection. Do you have anything in that Vulcan arsenal of yours that may help with that?"

"We Vulcans do possess the ability to put ourselves in a healing trance, boosting the immune system and speeding healing time."

"Then do it."

"I cannot, Captain. It requires a measure of concentration that would render me unconscious for a prolonged period of time, requiring a significant effort to rouse me from that altered state."

"So, what's the problem?"

"If the Klingons were to come for us again before I am properly awakened—" Spock's explanation was interrupted by the door to their cell being flung open, Kor silhouetted against the light streaming in from without, flanked by two guards. The Federation men climbed to their feet.

"Gentlemen, you performed most admirably today. I would be remiss if I failed to reward such bravery," he said magnanimously, signaling to his subordinates. One stepped forward, two small plates in hand, which he set on the edge of the raised section of the cell.

"Thank you, but no, we'll pass," Kirk announced smoothly.

"I beg your pardon?" Kor asked in a silky whisper.

"We decline your generous offer," Kirk reiterated.

"Unfortunately, Captain, you are forgetting something. As I told you before, I am in command here, not you. I shall not be so negligent in my duty to the Empire as to allow two prisoners who possess the wealth of information you do to perish from starvation. You _will_ eat – both of you – or the other will suffer for your lack of compliance and you will then be force fed. The choice is yours, Captain. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

Trading a glance with Spock, Kirk walked up to the edge of the raised tier, eyeing the contents of the plates dubiously. They contained chunks of fatty, gristly meat, swimming in a greasy, gray gravy. Spock had followed at his shoulder and Kirk turned to his companion, handing him one of the plates, a look of profound apology flitting briefly over his features.

The two proceeded to eat in silence, dispatching the meager portions quickly. "Thank you, gentlemen," Kor quipped. "And now, something to wash it down with." The other guard set a metal bowl full of dirty, brown water at the edge of the raised section of the stone floor, grabbing the two used dishes and utensils. Kor and his men turned and left, the lock clanking home.

Once the Klingons had departed, Spock bolted for the corner of their cell that had become their latrine, immediately emptying the contents of his stomach. As the Vulcan continued to retch, Kirk looked away, trying to provide his first with what little privacy he could.

Spock returned a minute later, settling himself on the floor beside his captain.

After several moments of awkward silence, Kirk began speaking. "I know it goes against you principles, Mister Spock, but it might be wise not to purge what little food they are giving us from your system. It will only deplete your strength even faster."

"You misunderstand, Captain. My vomiting the contents of my stomach was not intentional. I have been a vegetarian all my life. At this stage, my system is unable to process the foreign form of sustenance. Perhaps at a later date my body will become acclimated to the unfamiliar source of nourishment."

Kirk glanced sharply at him. "Let's hope we're not here long enough for that to happen," he announced grimly.

"Jim, let us be honest with one another. I am not the only one experiencing pain," Spock stated matter-of-factly, locking eyes with his captain, restarting the conversation that had been interrupted by the arrival of Kor and his men.

Kirk looked away. "I don't think Bones would have anything in his little black bag that could help with my kind of pain."

"But I do," the Vulcan responded earnestly. Kirk's gaze snapped to his, and Spock attempted to qualify his statement. "The Vulcan mind is also quite adept at blocking emotional pain, Jim. If you would permit me to meld with you I could—"

"NO!" Kirk shouted forcefully. He began again, calmer this time. "I can't Spock – not yet anyway. The memories of the pain of having something inside my head are just too fresh, too raw. It's got nothing to do with you; it's something I need to work through on my own." Kirk's gaze softened, the silent apology written clearly on his face.

"Understood, sir," came the whispered reply.

"Let's try and get some rest," Kirk remarked, deftly shifting the flow of the conversation, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. "Something tells me that tomorrow we're gonna need it." The Vulcan followed suit, and soon the two of them had passed into the oblivion of an uneasy slumber.

oooOOOooo

Over the course of the next week there were several more sessions, each one building on the previous one. Spock had been forced to endure physical beatings with a wide variety of implements, as well as extreme heat and bone-chilling cold. The Vulcan had lost the tip of an ear and several toes to frostbite.

And yet, each tried to buoy the spirits of the other, conversations tending to revolve around how the fleet was doing, how soon they could expect to be liberated, and maintaining the inner focus necessary to transcend their current predicament, each encouraging the other to stay strong until help arrived.

Thus became the pattern of their lives: Lengthy periods of inactivity locked in their dank, malodorous cell combined with frequent, regular torture sessions, Spock wrestling with the toll his physical injuries were taking on him, and Kirk struggling with his all-consuming guilt, knowing that it would only take a word from him to bring about an end to his friend's torment.

Things had gone from bad to worse during the next few weeks of their captivity. Spock had suffered dislocated joints, burns and other inhumane atrocities, with the events of today almost putting Kirk over the edge. During this morning's torture session he had been made to watch as they blinded Spock with a hot poker. The Vulcan had been unable to hide his agony, crying out as several of their captors held him down, another digging the remainder of the mangled tissue from the damaged eye socket with a small knife. Kirk had been seized by dry heaves, leaping to his feet, incensed by the sheer savagery of the scene unfolding before him, only to be flattened by the butt of a disruptor connecting with his temple. Mercifully, all had gone black after that.

Up till now, their road had been difficult, but tolerable. Kirk's grip on the man in his arms tightened involuntarily as he recalled the meeting he had had with Kor a few hours ago, several guards dragging him to the Commander's office:

"_You leave me little choice, Captain. I would take his other eye, but then he would be unable to see your suffering. Tomorrow, if you do not give me the information I want, I will instruct my soldiers to castrate him."_

_Kirk felt the blood drain from his face, the taste of bile suddenly filling his mouth, dark spots dancing before his eyes. His knees buckled, the strong arms of the guards on either side of him the only things keeping him on his feet._

"_I see that, finally, I have touched a nerve. The war goes well – at least for us. We have surrounded your home planet, the only thing preventing us from laying waste to it the defensive screens blanketing your world. I want the frequencies that will render them inoperative. I will have that information, and secure my place as a hero of this war, or make you and your friend suffer as you have never done before. The pain he has endured so far will be child's play compared to what faces him tomorrow, starting with the removal of his manhood." He paused briefly before continuing. "We Klingons are also quite skilled at vivisection – at least, some of us are. My soldiers will get their first lesson at the expense of your friend. As to how he will fare under their brutal ministrations – who can say?_

"_It's up to you now, Captain – the decision rests squarely on your shoulders. I will grant you twelve hours to make up your mind – a most generous offer on my part, only because I have found you to be a worthy opponent. You would have made a fine Klingon. It pains me greatly to finally have to break you, but this is war, after all." The governor leered openly at Kirk. "Take him back to his cell," Kor instructed, addressing the guards. "He has much to ponder before day breaks tomorrow."_

He glanced down once again at the man resting uneasily against his chest. Spock had already endured significantly more than was expected of the average Starfleet officer; had borne the regular beatings and extreme physical discomfort stoically and without complaint. _What_ _he has been through would have already broken a lesser man_, Kirk thought silently. _Would surely have broken me by now_. Kirk found that he was unwilling to subject his first to anything else; would no longer be the cause of this man's unimaginable suffering.

"Spock," he said, a hand brushing the narrow shoulders, cautious not to disturb the healing burns along his first's back, visible through what was left of the man's shredded tunic.

The lone eye popped open instantly, searching Kirk's face. The Vulcan started to sit up, but gentle pressure from Kirk caused him to be still. "Don't move too much. I know it's painful for you."

"Jim. I told you I am capable of blocking the pain. It is of no consequence."

A wry grin pulled at the corners of Kirk's mouth. "C'mon Spock, this is _me_, remember?" At the puzzled look that appeared on his first's face, Kirk added, "That hasn't been working for some time now." It was not a question.

Spock shifted beneath his arms, choosing not to answer.

"I've come to a decision. I can't let them hurt you anymore."

"Jim. The fleet is overdue. Our rescue is imminent. You mustn't lose faith," the Vulcan implored him earnestly, pushing himself to a seated position. "I can continue to resist, I assure you."

"I'm sorry Spock, but that ship has already sailed. Please, my friend. I will not be the cause any longer of what they are doing to you; what they're putting you through. Let me release you from your pain."

"Jim, I cannot," the Vulcan replied, instantly grasping Kirk's meaning. "Please do not ask this of me. I will not leave you here to face them alone."

"You don't understand, Spock. I don't have the will to fight them anymore. The next time they hurt you, I won't be able to stop myself from telling them everything, just to spare your suffering. It was all I could do not to blurt out everything when they took your eye. Tomorrow, Kor promised to castrate you – among other things – if I don't give them the frequencies to disarm the defense grid around Earth. I can't let either of those things happen, Spock, and one of them will if I don't change the parameters of this sick game of cat and mouse somehow. Please don't allow me to be put in that position."

"Then I shall release _you_," the Vulcan said, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady.

"I can't let you do that. If you kill me, it'll only make it worse for you. They know there's nothing they can do to get you to talk, but that doesn't mean they won't make you pay for killing me by putting you through the most heinous methods of torture at their disposal. We already know what Kor's capable of. He's a prime example of the ruthlessness of his race. He won't hesitate to commit unspeakable atrocities on you. You've suffered enough because of me." His look softened, became pleading, his fingers closing around the Vulcan's forearm. "I will no longer be the cause of your pain."

"Jim, as a Vulcan I have the ability to retreat so deeply within my mind that without a healer to guide me back, it will lead to my death. I shall not be left behind to face their wrath."

"Then do it, Spock. Now. Please."

"You misunderstand me, Jim. I will not leave you here alone," the Vulcan reiterated ardently.

"Then kill me first. We knew when we were assigned to this mission that it was probably a one way ticket. If I'm going to die anyway, I'd rather do so by your hand than by theirs. Grant me that one last bit of dignity. I'm asking you." A beat. "I'm begging you."

Spock was silent for a moment, the shock of that request registering openly on his face. He had never seen Jim back down from a struggle before; never seen him give in, even when the situation seemed hopeless, when the odds were stacked heavily against them. In that instant he finally and truly realized the toll the endless days of emotional torture were taking on his friend. He nodded, acquiescing at last. "Then we shall go together. I shall initiate a mind meld. If your mind is linked to mine at the instant of my death, your body shall perish as well." Remembering Kirk's last reaction to his suggestion of the joining of their minds, he eyed his friend with trepidation. "Do you trust me, Jim?"

Kirk's lips lifted into a wistful smile. "Implicitly. Do it. Now," the captain declared resolutely, tilting his head back slightly and closing his eyes. The fingers that brushed the side of his face were cool, the touch feather-light. He felt the Vulcan's presence slip effortlessly into his mind.

At first, Kirk found himself floating in a cocoon of blackness, Spock's distinctive, soothing aura all around him. For the first time in weeks he felt safe, secure, protected. Soon the darkness began to shift, color and light gradually filtering in, until Kirk found himself standing in a rolling plain that stretched as far as the eye could see, the wind bending the tender rye grass to its will, the fodder rippling and swaying in time to the gentle breeze. The sun was warm against his cheek, the smell of the rich, dark earth beneath his feet stirring memories of his childhood growing up on a farm in the State known even in his time as Iowa.

He looked around him, reveling in the warmth, breathing in deeply the familiar, comforting scents, the images of his carefree youth light-years away from the stark reality that had recently become his life.

And yet, he felt as if something was missing. _"Spock?"_ he called out, sensing the Vulcan's presence. The tall grass before him parted, and the Vulcan stepped out into the light. Not the Spock of the last few weeks – the one covered in sores and bruises, painfully thin and pale, the empty eye socket accosting him like a silent accuser, but the Spock he remembered, dressed in science blue, thin but wiry and fit, an eyebrow on a journey across a low forehead heading for sleek, black bangs, hands clasped firmly behind the straight, undamaged back.

He took a step forward, reaching for the Vulcan, amazed to discover his arm was not encased in the gold velour fabric of his command tunic as he'd expected, but swathed in plaid flannel. Kirk's hands brushed his thighs, the coarse feel of denim grazing his fingertips. He glanced up again at the Vulcan. _"Spock. I'm home. How did you manage this?"_

"_We are not really here, Jim,"_ came the calm, even response, the voice firm, assured, steady as Kirk remembered it. _"You did this. Our minds are locked together, and this was the place yours chose; the one that would provide you with a sense of escape, of safety in the face of our current situation."_

"_This is the farm where I grew up, Spock," _Kirk said, his voice tinged with awe._ "I had hoped to be able to bring you here one day. Here, let me show you around."_ He swept his arm before them, encompassing all the fields that could be seen with the naked eye. _"This is our land. Generations of Kirks have farmed this land, at first with crude, livestock-powered farm implements, later with mechanized vehicles and today with state of the art, automated machines. We were able to cultivate a hundred and fifty acres with only a few workers, less once my brother and I were old enough to pull our weight. This was mom's baby; what she did to keep her mind occupied, to steer her thoughts away from the dangers her husband, and later her sons, would face in space. My father was a security chief in Starfleet, often on extended deployments aboard his ship, my brother a research scientist, stationed with his family on Deneva."_

Spock stood quietly at his side, listening patiently. Kirk turned, a hand shading his eyes from the bright glare of the sun. _"The house and outbuildings are this way," _he said, pointing off into the distance and starting off in that direction at a leisurely pace. Spock fell into step beside him.

"_I haven't been back here in over a year. Thank you for this – it means a lot to be able to see the place one last time."_

Spock acknowledged the words of gratitude with an imperceptible dip of the head. Cresting a slight hill, several structures appeared on the horizon. _"There's the house. Come on, Spock,"_ the captain said, quickening his pace. After several minutes of brisk walking, they arrived at a two-story farmhouse. Kirk bounded up the five stairs onto the large, wooden wrap-around porch, headed for the front door._ "Let's go in. I want you to meet my parents, my brother."_ Kirk reached for the rustic screen door, but a hand on his forearm stopped him.

"_Jim. This is not as it appears. It may look like the home of your youth, but within this meld this structure symbolizes the point of no return. As I indicated before we began, we are searching for the place deep within the recesses of my mind from which I shall not be able to escape without assistance. We have found it. This represents our last chance to change our minds, Jim. Once we open this door and pass beyond the threshold, there will be no turning back."_

"_Our last chance? Don't you mean _your_ last chance?"_

"_I will not leave you here to face them alone. We do this together, or not at all."_

Kirk clapped a hand on Spock's shoulder. _"Then let's go, my friend. At this point, I see no other alternative. We have run out of options. It seems we can no longer count on being rescued. This is not how I wanted or expected things to go, but at least by doing this we can prevent any intimate knowledge of Starfleet from falling into the hands of the enemy."_ The flannel-clad image of Kirk sighed. _"We can only hope that the fleet fares better. For us, the battle is over. I'm just glad you're here with me at the end of all things," _he said, the words of Frodo Baggins from J.R.R. Tolkien's classic work springing to mind unbidden.

Spock eyes expressed the emotions his words could not. _"Indeed. Are you ready, my friend?"_

In answer, Kirk fumbled for Spock's hand, his fingers closing around the Vulcan's long, warm ones. He was relieved when he felt an answering pressure. Trading a glance with the Vulcan, he felt his grin deepen as Spock responded with a slight smile of his own. With his free hand, Kirk tugged open the door and the two walked determinedly, hand in hand, into a blinding light and certain oblivion.

**Epilogue**

"Mister Scott, message coming in from Starfleet," Uhura announced.

"Put it on screen, lass."

"Yes sir," she acknowledged, hands flying over the console before her.

The image of Admiral Komack materialized on the central viewer. "Mister Scott, our fleet has the enemy on the run, their ships fleeing for the security of Klingon space. Your request to return to Organia in order to search for Captain Kirk and Commander Spock granted. You may disengage from the fleet and proceed there at best possible speed, Commander."

"Thank ye, sir," the Scotsman said aloud, an "It's about time," muttered softly under his breath.

"I can't stress enough the importance of this mission, Mister Scott. We need to determine their fate. Both possess enough vital information about the inner workings of Starfleet that it could be extremely detrimental for us should that information fall into the hands of the enemy. The _Enterprise_ is tasked with finding out if they're still alive, rescuing them if they are, or ending it for them if rescue is not an option. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir." The Scotsman could feel McCoy tense beside him. A quick glance in the surgeon's direction warned him to hold his tongue. "ETA to Organia at warp five is…" he hesitated slightly, waiting for the navigator to provide the information, "two hours, twenty-six minutes, sir."

"Very good, Mister Scott. Carry on as ordered, and inform us of pertinent developments as they arise."

"Aye sir. Scott out."

oooOOOooo

"Can't we go any faster, Scotty?"

"I'm already pushin' her at warp six, Doctor." The Scotsman had ordered the increase in speed over an hour ago. Something had told him time was of the essence. "Given the damage we suffered durin' that last confrontation wi' the Klingons, I'd say we should be pleased wi' that."

"What's our ETA? Jim and Spock have already been on their own on that planet for over three weeks. If they were captured by the Klingons…" McCoy's words trailed off.

"I understand that, Doctor, but we'll be no good to them if we blow ourselves apart while en route. We'll be there in twenty-two minutes. If they're still there, we'll get them out, one way or another. I suggest ye head to sickbay, Doctor. Odds are, if the Klingons haven't transferred them elsewhere, they'll be in a bad way if they've been prisoners for the last three weeks."

"Fine," McCoy remarked dourly, heading for the turbolift. "Just notify me as soon as we get there."

"Trust me, Doctor – ye'll be the first to know," the Scotsman answered.

oooOOOooo

"Dropping out of warp in five...four…three…two…one," Sulu announced, the ship shuddering slightly.

"No signs of enemy vessels in orbit, sir," a voice from the science station announced. "Scanning the captain and Mister Spock's last known location for human or Vulcan life signs." Several minutes of tense silence engulfed the bridge as the scanner at the science station hummed with activity.

"Found them, sir," the lieutenant announced, glancing over his shoulder at the command chair, "But the readings are extremely faint."

Scott slapped a hand down on the comm unit on the arm of the command chair. "Scott to transporter room!"

"_Kyle here; go ahead, sir."_

"Tie into the science station's scanners and prepare to beam the captain and Mister Spock aboard." He switched channels without waiting for the transporter chief's reply.

"Scott to sickbay."

"_Sickbay, Corpsman Reynolds here, sir."_

"Get me Doctor McCoy, right away."

"_The doctor and a medical team are currently on station in the transporter room sir, awaiting word of the command team's location."_

"We found them, lad. Kyle should be beamin' them aboard any moment now. Make sure sickbay is ready to handle any medical emergency."

"_Doctor McCoy put the entire staff on alert before he left. We're ready, sir," _the young man assured his acting captain.

"Very good lad, they should be there in a few minutes. Bridge out."

Scotty's next call was to the transporter room. "Kyle, report! What the hell's happening? Do ye have them or not?"

oooOOOooo

Relief turned to stunned silence as the two seated forms that had just materialized on the transporter platform toppled over, neither moving. McCoy bounded up the stairs, landing on his knees before them, scanner in his hand, but deep down he already knew. "It's too late," he announced softly to the people gathered in the room, "They're gone."

He heard an anguished cry erupt from Chapel, who fled the room, nothing but silence, a defeated sigh and the shifting of feet on the deck to be heard from Kyle and the two orderlies standing behind the gurneys.

At that moment the intercom whistled, but the doctor was oblivious to the conversation that followed.

Brushing the tears from his cheeks, McCoy was appalled at how much the two of them had changed in just three short weeks. Even in death Kirk appeared haggard, drawn as if he'd been subjected to horrible mental anguish. There was no doubt as to the fate Spock had suffered; one look at the deep bruising, the purulent sores peeking out through his tattered clothing, the empty eye socket, the too-thin frame told him all he needed to know. Closing his eyes, chin lifted to the heavens, he railed at Starfleet, at the Klingons, at the universe in general for putting them through this, uttering a string of silent curses to God, to fate, to the Admiralty, to whoever was ultimately responsible. Consumed by his grief, he glanced at the bodies again, and it was then that he noticed it – even in death, their two hands were clasped firmly together. A sob escaped his lips as a modicum of relief flooded him. At least they had been together; been there for each other, been able to offer comfort, support and yes, even love, when they were called upon to demonstrate the last full measure of their devotion.


End file.
